They Came to Kill

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “But what about Clementine?” Harp said.

  “We’ll have other chances to grab her. Whoever that is comin’ this way, I don’t want to tangle with them. From the looks of that dust, we’d be outnumbered.”

  “Maybe we could bushwhack them, too,” Jerome suggested.

  Clete suppressed the urge to wallop his brother. It wouldn’t do any good. If it had been possible to knock some sense into them, he would have already accomplished that.

  “There are too many of them,” he explained. “Now come on. Get mounted up!”

  Harp asked, “Which way are we goin’?”

  Clete sighed. “Back to the north, I reckon. Any other way, we’d stand too much of a chance of running into trouble.”

  “So we’re back where we started,” Lew said.

  Lew was more correct than Clete wanted to think about. Muttering bitter curses under his breath, he swung up into the saddle and led his brothers away from there.

  Whoever that was galloping up from the southeast, he hoped they wouldn’t wipe out the whole bunch at the wagons, Clementine included.

  CHAPTER 36

  Noah Stuart slowly lifted his head as he realized the shooting had stopped. Maybe the ambushers had just paused for a moment to reload or allow their weapons to cool off, he thought. He wasn’t going to stick his head outside the wagon, that was certain. Just raising it to listen more closely was running a big enough risk.

  A few seconds later, Dupre’s familiar voice called, “M’sieu Stuart, you are all right in there?”

  “Yes, I . . . I believe I am,” Stuart replied. “But Mr. Edgerton is dead. One of those first shots must have hit him.”

  Grim silence greeted that announcement and lasted for a few seconds. Then Dupre said, “Stay where you are for now, m’sieu. I believe all the assassins are gone, but they may be trying to lure us into the open so they can try again to murder us.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Stuart assured the Frenchman, even though lying only a few feet away from Edgerton’s body made him extremely uncomfortable.

  As the minutes stretched interminably past, he heard some of the other men talking quietly among themselves.

  Then Pugh exclaimed loudly enough for Stuart to hear, “Look up yonder! It’s Dog Brother.”

  “He must have crawled off through the brush and circled around.” That was Dupre. A moment later, he said, “You can come out now, M’sieu Stuart. Dog Brother is up in the rocks and has just given us a sign indicating that the ambushers are gone.”

  Stuart wasn’t going to clamber over Edgerton’s corpse. He backed away and climbed out over the driver’s box. As he dropped to the ground, he saw the rest of the party emerging from the cover they had taken when the shooting started.

  Stuart went over to help Merrick to his feet as his assistant crawled out from under the wagon. “Are you all right, Chester?”

  Merrick’s face was pale as a sheet and his hands shook as he brushed dirt off his clothes. “I’m not hurt, Mr. Stuart, but I sure do wish I’d never agreed to come along on this trip. I think it’s just a matter of time until we’re both killed!”

  “I’m sure that won’t be the case. Our companions are nearly all experienced frontiersmen.”

  “That won’t stop a bullet. You saw how close Mr. Dupre came to being shot.”

  That was true. Even now, the Frenchman was picking up his ruined fiddle and looking glumly at the damage the bullet had done. “Never again will a merry tune come from you,” he told the instrument as he patted it gently. “But I will avenge you, old friend. You can count on that.”

  Fletch and Clementine had crawled out from under the wagon after Merrick. Clementine looked at Stuart and asked, “Did I hear you say that Mr. Edgerton is . . . dead?”

  Stuart nodded. “I’m afraid so. It looked like one of the shots hit him as he was trying to move farther back in the wagon where it was safer.”

  “You’re sure he’s dead?” Fletch asked.

  “Yes, I could tell he wasn’t breathing at all.”

  One of the Molmberg brothers pointed silently. Stuart looked around and saw Dog Brother trotting toward the camp. The half-breed had climbed down from the ridge where the ambushers had been concealed.

  “Riders coming,” Dog Brother reported as he came up to the others. He waved a hand toward the southeast. “Looks like a large group.”

  Pugh groaned. “What sort of woe is comin’ at us now? The whole derned Apache nation?”

  Dupre shaded his eyes with his hand and peered in the direction Dog Brother had indicated. So did the others. Even though Dog Brother had been able to spot the column of dust first from his higher elevation, it was coming in sight and advancing steadily toward the camp.

  “At least we will not be taken by surprise this time,” Dupre said. “Everyone find a good spot and get ready to fight. Whoever those riders are, if they mean us harm, they will not find us ready to surrender!”

  For a minute or so, everyone scurried around getting in position. Fletch and Clementine climbed into their wagon, and Stuart and Merrick forted up inside their vehicle. Even though Merrick looked like he wanted to be somewhere else—anywhere else!—he clutched the shotgun, swallowed hard, and waited behind the driver’s box. Stuart was at the tailgate, which had been raised after Dupre and Pugh hurriedly lifted Edgerton’s body and placed it underneath the wagon.

  “Might should’ve propped the old boy up,” Pugh had said while they were doing that. “Would’ve looked like one more of us to put up a fight.”

  “It would take too long to make it look real,” Dupre had replied. “Not to mention being disrespectful. We didn’t know Edgerton for long, but he was one of us.”

  The rest of the group used the wagons for cover. The dust cloud was in plain sight as the unknown riders approached the camp. Dog Brother, who had perhaps the keenest eyes in the group, leaned forward and peered through the haze, then suddenly exclaimed, “They are soldiers!”

  Stuart squinted through the dust and haze and saw sunlight reflecting from metal trappings on men and horses alike. It was a large group, at least thirty strong.

  As they came closer, Stuart could make out the figures of two men in resplendent uniforms riding in the lead. Sporting large hats that extended to points in front of and behind the head and had feathered plumes sticking up from them, as well as bright scarlet sashes angling across the front of their blue uniform jackets, they had to be the officers in charge of this command.

  The other soldiers also wore blue jackets and white trousers turned gray with dust, but they had white sashes across their chests and flat-billed black caps on their heads. The officers were armed with pistols and sabers. The troopers following them carried flintlock rifles.

  In his job working for the Office of the Interior, Stuart had been around enough American soldiers to see the similarities between their uniforms and the ones these men wore, but he recognized the differences, too. These were foreign soldiers, specifically members of the Mexican army.

  That made sense, he told himself. A border might be precisely drawn on a map, but out in this vast wasteland, it was much more difficult to tell exactly where that line might be. Stuart hadn’t been sure for a couple of days if they were in Mexico or the United States.

  It was highly likely that these soldiers didn’t know for certain, either, but he expected that they would act like they did.

  “Everyone, stay where you are,” Dupre called. “These men may be soldiers instead of Apaches or whoever just ambushed us, but that is no guarantee they mean us no harm.”

  When the riders were fifty yards from the camp, they reined in. For a moment, the two officers appeared to be talking things over, and then one of them spurred his mount forward. The other officer turned to call a command to the troopers and waved for three of them to follow the first officer. Those men fell in behind the rider who approached the camp, holding his horse to a deliberate walk.

  As he came closer, Stuart could see th
e gaudy gold epaulets on the shoulders of his uniform. The man had several colorful ribbons pinned to the breast of his uniform jacket, as well. Somehow, he managed to look a bit like a dandy, despite the heat and the surroundings that left everyone else sweaty and grimy.

  Dupre stepped out into the open and walked slowly toward the officer.

  The man reined in again when roughly twenty feet separated them. “Buenos dias. Habla español?”

  Dupre shrugged. “Some. But I am more fluent in English. Or French, if you happen to speak it.”

  “English is better,” the officer said. “I am Capitan Enrique Garazano, the commandant of this patrol.” His words were heavily accented, but Stuart, listening from inside the wagon, could make them out. “This land belongs to Mexico. Do you have permission to be here?”

  “We are on a mission representing the United States government,” Dupre replied.

  Captain Garazano’s dark, narrow face creased in a frown. “You are soldiers?” he asked sharply, indicating that he might just consider them an invading force if Dupre answered in the affirmative.

  The Frenchman shook his head. “No, we’re all civilians. But we’re still here on behalf of the United States.”

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  Stuart decided that as one of the two people actually employed by the Office of the Interior, it was time he took part in this conversation. He stepped over the tailgate, dropped to the ground, and stepped forward so the Mexican officer could see him.

  “We’re surveying and mapping the region,” he announced, causing Dupre to flick an annoyed glance in his direction because of the interruption. “My name is Noah Stuart. I work for the United States Office of the Interior.”

  Garazano regarded him coolly. “Do you have permission from my government to be carrying out this task, Señor Stuart? Written permission?”

  Stuart tried to stay equally cool and reserved as he replied, “I don’t believe that’s necessary, Captain.”

  “Oh, but you are wrong, señor. You are very wrong. Without such written permission, you are trespassing on Mexican land.” Garazano’s voice took on a menacing purr as he added, “Some might even consider you invaders, to be driven out by any means necessary.”

  This wasn’t going well at all. The Mexican army patrol vastly outnumbered their group, and technically, Garazano might be right about them trespassing. Not only that, but according to the rumors he had heard, many of the Mexican soldiers were little better than bandits, always on the lookout for loot they could grab for themselves. They might decide that the Americans’ supplies and the surveying equipment ought to belong to them.

  And if they laid eyes on Clementine . . . Stuart didn’t want to think about the trouble that might cause.

  “Capitan!” The other officer was calling to Garazano.

  The captain turned, and an exchange of loud, rapid Spanish that Stuart couldn’t follow passed between the two men. Garazano barked an order at the three troopers who had accompanied him and trotted back to rejoin the other officer. The troopers remained, regarding Dupre and Stuart and the wagons with cold, impassive faces. Obviously, Garazano had ordered them to stay there and guard the Americans.

  The three men looked almost as Indian as the Apaches, Stuart thought. They couldn’t expect any mercy from men such as this.

  Stuart walked up alongside Dupre. From the corner of his mouth, the Frenchman said, “You should have stayed out of it, m’sieu.”

  “You told him we’re working for the government,” Stuart reminded him. “He already had his back up about that.”

  Dupre’s shoulders rose and fell in a display of Gallic indifference. “These Mexicans always look for an excuse to steal,” he said quietly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what we tell them. It comes down to whether they decide to kill us and take everything we have.”

  “We won’t let them do that, will we?”

  “Of course not. We will fight . . . but with their numbers, they will likely kill us anyway. Although not before we kill some of them. And when Preacher discovers what had happened, he will never rest until we are avenged. I suspect M’sieu MacCallister will be the same way.” Dupre smiled faintly. “No, Capitan Garazano does not realize the hell he may be about to unleash upon himself.”

  “But that won’t help us any if we’re dead,” Stuart pointed out.

  “No, it will not. But . . .” Dupre’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the two Mexican officers. “What are they talking about? They appear to be agitated about something . . .”

  Suddenly, Dupre laughed. “See the dust out there, Noah? Riders are coming fast. That can only be Preacher and Jamie and the others. That changes everything.”

  “We’re still outnumbered.”

  “But only two to one! That is nothing. The Mexicans are caught in a crossfire, too, and they know it! Look how they scurry around like ants!”

  It was true. Garazano and the other officer shouted orders. The troops began to spread out, dismount, and ready their rifles. In response to a command from Garazano, the three men who had been left to guard the Americans suddenly hauled their horses around and galloped back to join their comrades.

  “Get behind cover,” Dupre snapped at Stuart. “The battle is about to be joined!”

  CHAPTER 37

  “Looks like a bunch of soldiers,” Preacher said to Jamie as they rode at a fast trot toward the camp. “And they ain’t ours, I’m bettin’.”

  “Probably a Mexican army patrol,” Jamie replied. “We knew there was a chance we might run into one down here.”

  “They may not be much more friendly than them ’Paches.”

  “No, but I doubt that they’ll try to slaughter us outright.”

  Preacher drew his Sharps from its saddle sheath. “If they do, I reckon they’ll find themselves in a heap o’ trouble. Looks like there’s more of them than there are of us, but we got ’em betwixt a rock and a hard place.”

  “Let’s see if we can get through this without any shooting,” Jamie suggested.

  “Sure. But you know how hotheaded those varmints are.”

  Jamie knew, all right, and having spent some time at the Alamo before it fell, he still carried a grudge against the Mexican army, especially now that the infamous General Santa Anna was in charge of the country again. Crockett, Bowie, Travis . . . Jamie remembered them and all the other good men who had been wantonly slaughtered by Santa Anna’s troops. That blood debt would never be paid in full, as far as he was concerned.

  Still, he was here to do a job for his country, a job he had agreed to carry out to the best of his ability, so he turned in his saddle and said to the men with him, “I’m going to try talking to those fellas first, so hold your fire and let the hand play out. Hang back a little, and I’ll go ahead and parley, if they’re of a mind to.”

  “Take Audie with you,” Preacher suggested. “He speaks Spanish better ’n anybody I know.”

  Ramirez let out a disgusted snort and demanded, “What about me?”

  Preacher said, “Audie speaks Spanish better ’n anybody I know who ain’t a hotheaded gunslinger who’s liable to cause a heap of trouble. There, is that better?”

  Ramirez just glared at the mountain man.

  Audie moved his mount up alongside Jamie’s and said, “I’d be glad to accompany you, Jamie.”

  “Obliged to you. Let’s go see if we can find out what’s going on.”

  They moved ahead of the others at a faster pace. From where they were, the group of Mexican soldiers blocked sight of the camp for the most part, but in the glimpses Jamie got, he didn’t see any of the people he had left there. Had the Mexicans already wiped them out? They had heard shooting, after all, although it had stopped not long after they rode away from the mesa.

  Audie must have had a pretty good idea what Jamie was thinking. The diminutive former professor said, “I don’t believe there were enough shots to signify a full-scale battle. If a force of that size had attacked the camp, it would have s
ounded worse.”

  “It would have been over pretty fast, though,” Jamie argued. “And the shooting we heard didn’t last very long.” He drew his Sharps and balanced the loaded weapon across the saddle in front of him.

  His keen eyes picked out the two officers, and at the first sign of trouble, he intended to blow one of those men out of the saddle. He said as much to Audie, then added, “You take the other one. Mexican troops aren’t any good without somebody to tell them what to do. Despite the odds being on their side, they might just cut and run if they don’t have any leaders.”

  “The same thought had occurred to me,” Audie said. “But without commanders, they might turn into an even more ravening and rapacious horde than they would be otherwise.”

  “A chance we’ll have to take,” Jamie said. Abruptly, he stiffened in the saddle. “I see Dupre and Noah Stuart. They’re still alive, anyway.”

  One of the officers peeled away from his companion and rode out to meet them, trailed by a trio of troopers. It looked like the man wanted to talk, and Jamie was grateful for that, even though just the sight of the Mexican soldiers had his blood up and a part of him was eager for battle.

  They all reined in when they were a short distance apart. The officer nudged his horse ahead a couple more steps and asked, “Are you men part of this group of surveyors, as well?”

  Had Stuart told the officer they were all surveyors? Jamie knew that claim wouldn’t hold up once the man got a good look at the rest of them—nobody was going to mistake the old mountain men or Dog Brother for surveyors—but Jamie avoided a direct answer to that question by saying, “We’re all part of the same bunch.”

  “You are trespassing on Mexican land!”

  Audie asked, “Can you document that, Capitan?”

  He must have been able to tell the officer’s rank by the markings on his uniform, Jamie thought.

  The man drew in a deep breath and pulled himself up stiff and straight in the saddle. “I am Capitan Enrique Garazano, and the word of an officer in El Presidente’s army is all the documentation that is needed!”